"Some of them went to the local Society for Creative Anachronism. Some to Goodwill. But mostly the kids made their own outfits. The fabric was real cheap, and the belts and broaches are just dime-store items," he said defensively, giving Meredith a clue that the money had come from the project kitty.
She relaxed. "Well, I suppose—"
"Would you have any problem with our using the damaged lumber to build a longhouse out by the swimming pool?"
"Wh-what? Absolutely not. Where's Rolf.? I want to talk to him. Now! What happened to his tight time schedule? A longhouse! Oh, I'm going to kill him. Where is that damn Viking?"
"Must you shriek all the time, Merry-Death?" Rolf said, coming up behind her. Mike and Thea hurried off, leaving her to face the man alone. "Truly, every sea-gull from here to Iceland has flown away with all your caterwauling."
Because she'd had to present a progress report at a faculty meeting that morning, Meredith wore a black silk peplum suit with a knee-length skirt, nylons, and high-heeled pumps. Even as he criticized her "caterwauling," Rolf leaned lazily against the house, arms folded over his wide chest, and made a sweeping assessment of her outfit. It was hard to miss the appreciative widening of his whiskey eyes at the vast stretch of exposed legs.
"I was not shrieking," she said, disconcerted. "I merely said... Rolf, are you listening to me?"
"Huh?" His eyes were still riveted on her stockings, not to mention her fitted jacket and the modest cleavage where a single pearl on a gold chain nestled. Then a slow grin crept over his lips. "Just how high do those scandalous hose go?"
"High enough," she snapped, her face flushing with heat. "Really, my attire has nothing to do with...aaarrgh!... what are you doing?" This time she really was shrieking.
Rolf reached an arm downward and was proceeding to lift the hem of her skirt to check for himself on the hosiery.
She slapped his hand away and told him, "It goes to the waist, and it's called pantyhose. Now, can we get back to the reason for my coming home—to talk to you?"
"Hmmm," he murmured, his attention now centered on the pearl pendant. "I have an emerald necklet in my treasure casket at home... bartered from a Rus trader in Novgorod. I would give it to you if I could. 'Twould match your beautiful eyes, sweetling." He flicked the pearl with a forefinger.
Her bare skin undemeath felt seared by his brief touch. "Oh." She sighed involuntarily.
"Oh," he said at the same time, throatily, with obvious surprise. Then his amber eyes went heavy lidded and smoldering. In an instant, the brush of his forefinger across her skin had acted like the abrasion of a match, striking instantaneous fire in them both.
Alarmed at the sudden wave of turmoil that flooded her, she backed away, through the patio door and into the house.
He followed after her, drawing the door shut and clicking the lock in place.
She backed into the corner by the fireplace, out of view of any who might pass by outside. Did she do so accidentally, or because she wanted privacy to be alone with Rolf.? Had he missed her as much as she'd missed him these past two days? Did he want her as much as she was beginning to want him?
With arrogant presumption, Rolf snaked one hand around her nape and used the other hand to haul her hips up flush against his. And, oh, Lord, he had missed her. A lot.
"I don't think—" she started to protest.
"That's right, dearling, don't think," he finished for her. Incorrectly, of course, but Meredith couldn't manage to get the words out to set him straight. Rolf had lifted her by the waist and pushed her against the wall, her high heels a good foot off the floor. With his hips holding her in place, belly to belly, Rolf proceeded to do what he'd intended all along.
With a rumble of supreme male determination, he ran his callused palms over her silk stockings, from the creases of her knees, over the bicks of her thighs and buttocks, up to the waist, hitching her skirt up along the way.
"I'm going to have dozens of snags," she choked out.
"Yea, you are good and truly snagged now, wench," he misinterpreted and undulated against her once in demonstration. Bolts of white-hot arousal shot out from that point to all her extremities, and Meredith blinked with wonder. She hoped her eyes weren't bugging out.
Then he pulled away for a second to allow space to hike the skirt up to her waist in front, too. He flipped up his tunic as well so there were only her pantyhose and the thin fabric of his loincloth separating them.
Before she could slip down to the floor, his hips were back in place, locking her to the wall like a rag doll.
"Who is in charge now, Merry-Death?" he said huskily against her ear, reminding her of their ongoing battle.
Even his hot breath felt like a caress, but she refused to answer. It was so unfair of him to carry their differences over the longship project into this personal arena.
He laughed at her unspoken resistance to his question, and Meredith feared he would take it as a challenge.
He did.
Bending his knees slightly and canting his pelvis forward, he fitted his arousal with perfect accuracy into the vee of her legs. Her senses reeled and a soft whimper escaped her throat.
"Was that an order I just heard, Dr. Foster?" he asked, taking her hands, which had begun to push against his shoulders, and raising them above her head.
Lacing her fingers with his, he placed them against the wall.
She shook her head. "Is this how Vikings go about raping and pillaging? Is this how you subdue your captive women?"
"Nay, this is how," he replied silkily.
And Meredith comprehended even before his head began to descend that she'd stepped into his trap.
"Wet your lips," he demanded.
She should have refused. Instead, she obeyed. Her only satisfaction was his quick intake of breath.
He nodded with approval, and then coaxed, "Part your lips."
She obeyed.
His erection lurched against her. "Arch your neck and raise your mouth to meet mine." His order this time was a barely discernible whisper.
He took her lips then with a savage intensity, catching her moan in his open mouth. Rapaciously, he forced her lips wider to take his thrusting tongue. To her shock, Meredith found herself welcoming his rough invasion, drawing on his tongue, kissing him back.
Never breaking the kiss, Rolf molded her mouth with wet, clinging expertise. He directed her without words on how to make her lips pliant, how to please him most.
When the pulsing sensation between her legs began to throb and spiral outward with delicious agony, portending a too-hasty, too-violent climax, Meredith tried to tear her mouth away and tighten her thighs together.
"No!" she cried out.
Understanding far too much, Rolf nipped her bottom lip with controlled aggression. "Shhh, sweetling, let me." It wasn't a request.
"But I don't want... oh!" Somehow in her passion-induced state, she hadn't realized that her hands were still raised above her head, voluntarily now, while his hands had been busy undoing the buttons on her jacket.
His golden brown eyes glittered with erotic excitement as he gazed at her lace-covered breasts, then eased the fabric aside.
He didn't have to order her to bow her back and thrust her aching breasts forward. She did so out of a primordial need for his male touch. And, oh... o-o-o-h! It took a mere flick of his callused fingertips over the swollen nipples for her to whimper and spread her legs, wrapping them around his waist.
With a guttural growl, he put his hands on her nearly bare buttocks and rocked her, first gently, then hard, hard, hard till the agonizing pulse grew and grew and grew. They both exploded against each other in a wild rush of overwhelming ecstasy.
At some point, Rolf's legs must have given way for she awakened from a brief swoon—the first of her life—to find herself on the floor, with her legs still clamped around his waist. He looked stunned.
She was pretty stunned herself. And mortified beyond belief.
Geirolf leaned against a tree and wa
tched Merry-Death through slitted eyelids as she skittered amongst her students. She'd resisted Thea's urging to change into an extra Viking gown, and instead donned a pair of jeans and a huge sweating shert emblazoned with, "I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar." He smiled as he read the message. He already knew how she could "roar."
He much preferred her in the garment she'd worn earlier—the one that exposed her long legs and a good portion of her bosom. Or the cat-fur sweat-her she'd worn to the shipping mall several days past.
He wouldn't tell her of his preferences yet, though. At this moment, he was not pleased with the wench.
Oh, she talked to the young people in a normal tone of voice about the project and other sundry matters.
They sat about the fire nibbling at the meal he had provided for them on wooden trenchers: chunks of beef swimming in a thick gravy served over slices of unleavened manchet bread, which they called pita bread in this land. And she laughed gaily when admiring their attire, but he knew the gaiety was forced. The wench was as nervous as a cat on hot coals. And with good reason.
She'd escaped his clutches after their near coupling an hour past. But not for long. He knew it. And she knew it.
Geirolf couldn't believe he'd spilled his seed in his breechcloat like an overeager youthling. For the second time. The wench with her wanton hose had seduced him into an overpowering loss of control. And his release, though not attained in the mode he would have preferred, had been gloriously exquisite. Whilst he misliked the woman's ability to turn his brain to gruel and his bones to butter, he could scarce wait to see what their actual bedding would be like, if this foretaste was any indication.
"You're not eating," she commented, coming up to him finally. He noted that she maintained a good distance betwixt them, as if she thought he might pounce on her.
Mayhap he would.
"I would prefer to finish the meal you offered, then took away afore I had a chance to fully... ah, indulge." His words brought a stain to Mer-ry-Death's cheeks, which amazed him after her uninhibited display such a short time ago.
"Well, that was a—" she gulped—"mistake. Not to be repeated."
He laughed, causing several students, as well as Mike and Thea, to glance their way. For her ears only, he whispered, "Nay, not a mistake. And, for a certainty, to be repeated. Again and again and again. Except I intend to lead the loveplay in future. I intend to give the orders."
"It seems to me you gave enough orders already," she blurted out, and he could see she wished the words had never escaped her lips... lips that were still swollen and bruised from his kisses. That reminded him of how much he enjoyed kissing Merry-Death. The way she responded so readily. The ardor with which she returned his deep kisses. The kittenish puff she emitted when—
"Stop that! Stop it right now!"
"What?" His forehead furrowed with puzzlement.
"Looking at my mouth like... like..."
He arched a brow. "Like a hungry man?"
She moaned. "Rolf, this is serious."
"Yea, 'tis."
"No, I mean we have to behave in a more serious, professional manner. I came home from the office today to talk to you about our differences over the project, and instead—"
"Instead you enticed me with your harlot hose. 'Tis how women throughout the ages have attempted to settle differences with their menfolk. Tsk-tsk! Somehow, I expected more of you, being a professional woman and all."
"I did not entice you," she snapped indignantly. "You're the one who assaulted me. No wonder you Vikings have a reputation for raping and pillaging. It must come naturally."
"Assault? Do you say I assaulted you? Is that what you called it when you moaned your need into my mouth? When your green eyes turned molten with appeal? When you locked your warrior thighs about my hips and knocked me to the floor?"
"Warrior thighs? Warrior thighs?" she sputtered, shoving a palm into his chest, and then immediately stepped back when she saw the students gaping at them.
"Ah, you misread me, wench. Warrior thighs are an asset for a woman. Better to clench man and horse alike."
"Aaarrgh!
"Your nipples are peaking."
She looked down in horror, then cast him a disparaging scowl when she realized he could see nothing beneath the huge shert. "They are not."
"Mayhap I am mistaken."
"Mayhap your brain is lodged between your legs."
He grinned. "For a certainty."
"You're impossible."
"Yea. 'I'is one of the things women love about me."
"Do all Vikings have overinflated egos?"
He pulled a face at her. "You confuse self-importance with self-confidence."
"Are you going to take over the project again?"
"Are we changing the subject?" He laughed.
"Yes, we're changing the subject. Look at this," she stormed, waving a hand in the air toward the two unfinished longships. "Mike and the students barely have a framework up for the project vessel, while yours will be done in no time."
He shrugged. "With my time freed from managing the project, I've been able to spend all the daylight hours working on my boat. And, of course, I have no reservations about using sandpaper and modem wood fillers. Tomorrow I'm going to have Mike take me to Hardware Heaven again—"
"That's Hardware Superstore," she corrected.
"I know that, wench," he said, tweaking her nose, "but to a man who works with his hands, it is indeed heaven. As I was saying, I intend to buy some power tools. Mayhap a drill and an electric saw. And duct tape. I have heard that duct tape is man's best friend."
He jiggled his eyebrows at her.
"You are not using modern tools on my longship."
"Tsk-tsk-tsk! You are not listening, my lady. These are for my longship, not yours." He tapped his front teeth pensively. "I just had a wonderful idea. Mayhap I will make another purchase, too. A motor. Yea, I will be the first Viking with a power motor in my longship. "
"You... you—" she fought for words "—you wouldn't! "
"Merry-Death, Merry-Death, Merry-Death, you disappoint me. When will you learn not to rise to every bait a man throws your way? Nay, I'll not spoil a good ship with a motor. However, I've been studying the motor in Mike's wheeled box, and since he got me a sew-shall sack-your-tea document today, along with a travel pass—a passport—I am contemplating...
His hesitation should have given her a clue.
"... getting my driver's license tomorrow. And buying my own wheeled box. A car, not one of those trucks that Mike prefers."
"Oh, my God!" Merry-Death used the expression overmuch when talking to him. It no doubt meant he overwhelmed her with his wisdom and cunning.
"Perchance, do you know a good wheeled-box mart where... ?" he started to ask, tentatively.
Merry-Death narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him.
He loved her sea-green eyes, even when narrowed shrewishly.
"... where a Viking could purchase a... longcar?"
She made a choking sound before spinning on her heel and stalking toward the keep. To search for another of those magic pills of hers, he would wager. Let her cure her head megrims any way she could, for she will not plead an aching head later when he came presenting his own magic. And his magic wasn't in a pill.
Chapter Ten
Meredith's sister Jillian swept into their lives that evening like a summer storm over his beloved Vestfjord Valley. All bluster and no substance. She wore tight black braies of a stretchy material that would surely catapult her all the way to Iceland if a man pulled on the waistband and let go. On top, her breasts strained against a silky white shert that went down to her thighs and wrists but was cinched in at the waist with an oversized, metal-studded belt. Several opened buttons provided an impressive cleavage filled in with a handsome gold-and-amber necklet similar to those made by the Coppergate artisans in Jorvik.
Matching loops hung from her ears, which were exposed by the oddest hair. The color was the same dark reddish-brown
shade as Merry-Death's, piled atop her head in disarray, but strands of gold ran uniformly through it. He didn't think the sun could produce such an effect.
Mike and the students had left for the day, and dusk approached as Jillian hugged Thea over and over, then sent her outside to carry in the vast amount of baggage she'd brought with her. Turning to him and Merry-Death, Jillian asked bluntly, "So, are you two lovers?"
"No!" Merry-Death said.
"Yes," he said at the same time.
Jillian looked at each of them, her crimson lips curving up with amusement.
'Tis a question of definition," he explained, ignoring Merry-Death's coughing fit.
"We are not lovers," Merry-Death said emphatically and speared him with a sidelong glare. "I hired Rolf to work on the longboat project. He's a ship-builder from... Norway." She'd warned him in a nervous rush when Julian's hired box drove up earlier that he was not to discuss time travel, ancient Vikings, or anything that would cause her sister to know his true identity. Not that Merry-Death believed his explanations. And he didn't appreciate her referring to him as ancient, either.
He wagged an admonishing finger at Merry-Death.
"Nay, you misspeak our relationship. I was hired to direct the project. Is that not so, my lady?"
A speaking silence ensued in which Jillian mouthed the words "My lady?" at Merry-Death, and then narrowed her eyes, watching them far too closely.
He no longer required the talisman's magic to help him translate their strange language, except for the " occasional tongue-twisting words. Although he'd always mastered foreign tongues with ease, he was certain the relic had helped speed his lessons this time.
Finally, Merry-Death's shoulders slumped with resignation. "That's right. Rolf is directing the physical work on the project, and I'm handling the paperwork and liaison with the foundation committee. We're... partners." Her last word came out tentatively, and she held her breath, waiting for his reply.
Damn, but the woman was willful. He should take an excessive time contemplating her impertinent claim.
But compassionate man that he was, he nodded, and she released a sigh of relief. Later, she would pay for testing him so.